Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 76695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76695 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Somewhere along the way, as I started falling in that hole I’d been in, all the shit that made us brothers, save for blood, fell away. There wasn’t much playful ribbing, picking at each other, or even talking outside of discussing club shit.
I didn’t even know I missed it until right now, when I realized it had been missing.
So I went ahead and took a long-ass shower, keeping him waiting like I would have done purposely back in the day.
My face was looking somewhat better.
The swelling was gone, thank fuck.
And the bruising in some areas had faded completely. In the worst area near my jaw, there were still deep purple and blue shades, but the yellowing around the edges said it would all be gone in a few more days.
The red in my eye, though? That was still hanging in there. I figured it would be a while, considering it hadn’t lessened at all yet.
Finished, I grabbed my phone and headphones then went to meet my brother, who treated me to a glower as I moved into the garage.
“Proud of yourself?” he asked.
“A bit,” I admitted. Because, fuck, it felt good to even feel a little bit like my old self. Even if it was just fucking with my brother. “That’s the gun?” I asked, nodding toward it.
“No. It’s a fancy new dildo.”
“Yeah? You’re gonna have to pull the one outta your ass before you can put this new one in.”
Fallon snort-laughed at that.
“What the fuck does it do?” I asked, unfamiliar with the design. But I guess that was the purpose of a weapon designer’s existence.
“I honestly don’t wanna know with that price tag attached to it. So… secure it to your body in a place that won’t fucking set it off is my advice.”
“Gee thanks. Love a potential suicide mission,” I said, grabbing one of the holsters lying around. The gun was way too fucking big for my usual choice of an ankle holster, and a chest holster would be too obvious when the wind hit my chest on the bike, so I opened for a shoulder one, so the gun would be tucked under my arm.
I pulled off my shirt, and put on the holster before Fallon secured it in its place.
“Good?” I asked when I pulled my shirt back on, then layered on my cut.
“Yeah. It’ll do.”
“So, who am I giving this to? And how the fuck am I getting paid?”
“Oh, we got paid in advance,” Fallon said, waving me off.
“Really?” I asked. That never happened. I mean, we dealt mostly with criminals. They weren’t exactly a trusting group of individuals. They’d never pay in advance. Especially not that amount of money.
“Dunno what to tell you. He really wanted the gun. And knows we are an established organization.”
“Who is it?” I asked.
“Cian O’Donovan,” he said.
“O’Donovan,” I repeated, racking my brain. “I know of a Darragh O’Donovan.”
Big time Irish mafia don who’d gone to prison a few years ago for a triple homicide. News reports said that he was sitting at home, covered in the victims’ blood, smoking a cigar and drinking a beer, waiting for the cops.
“Yeah, that’s Cian’s father,” Fallon said, nodding.
“We’re dealing with the Irish mob now? That’s not gonna fuck with our alliance with the Grassi crew?” I asked, meaning the local Italian mafia we’d been allies with since our father’s reign.
“From my understanding, they deal in different shit, so it’s not some sort of conflict of interest. Besides, it’s not like I run our clients past the Grassis before I make a deal.”
“Where am I making this drop?” I asked.
“Remember that bar I took you to for your twenty-first birthday?” he asked.
“Where you made me pound a drink called Serpent Secretions until I puked?” I asked, recalling the neon green liquid coming back up. Never touched mixed drinks again after that.
I didn’t learn until after that it was some sort of fucking rite of passage in our family. Our old man’s old man had done it to him and our Uncle Cash. In turn, Dad and Cash took Fallon out to do the same to him on his twenty-first.
Both my old man and uncle had been sick as fuck on my twenty-first, so Fallon had continued the tradition. I wondered if he planned to do it to his kids someday. Knowing him, he would.
“Yeah, I vaguely remember that night. Mostly how I spent most of it hugging the bowl, then nursing the worst fucking hangover of my life the whole next day.”
“It was fun as fuck for me,” he said, grinning. “Anyway, further down that road is an old bowling alley.”
“The abandoned one?”
“From what I hear it’s not abandoned anymore,” he said.
Interesting way to wash their money, I guess.
“And when am I supposed to meet them?”
“In forty. So get the fuck moving,” he said, rapping me hard on the back before moving back into the clubhouse.